


Damn if there isn't anything sexier

by Krytella



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Masochism, Object Insertion, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krytella/pseuds/Krytella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne's already had weapons training. Arthur teaches her special skills for dreams, some of which they practice by shooting each other. They both find this unexpectedly arousing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damn if there isn't anything sexier

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic contains graphic consensual sexual violence and dream death.
> 
> For this prompt at the Inception Kink Meme: "After the Fischer job, she wants him to give her proper training to prevent extraction in case she’s ever another team’s mark. But the training she’s had is pretty much sufficient, so it leads to Arthur killing her in a variety of ways since decreased fear is useful whether a mark or part of a job. When he’s shot her everywhere else, he ends up fucking her with a gun before shooting it inside her. She wakes up more turned on than she’s ever been." http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html?thread=10705323#t10705323

“But damn if there isn't anything sexier  
than a slender boy with a handgun,  
a fast car, a bottle of pills.”  
– Richard Siken, “Little Beast”

"You know what you need to know. Remember, don't try anything fancy. Just relax and remember what we practiced. Your projections should be partly militarized now too, in case anyone tries to extract from you. I don't think any more target shooting is going to help you. When you need to defend yourself, it’s going to be hectic and loud. If the subconscious is militarized, people will be shooting at you. You need to be able to work through that. We need to practice shooting you, so you know what it's like. Think you can do that?" Arthur talks about killing people like he talks about how he likes his coffee.

"Okay," Ariadne says in a shaky voice.

He doesn't give her a chance to panic, just raises the gun and shoots her in the chest from five feet away.

She jerks awake in the warehouse, heart pounding. He's at her side in a few seconds.

"The first time you were killed in a dream, it was Cobb’s Mal projection, right?"

And it was just like this, she thinks. Waking up sick and shaking, Arthur kneeling next to her chair. Trying not to think of the wave of pain that came before.

"If I shot you in the chest right now, how long would it take you to die?"

Oh.

"Even if your heart or a major artery was damaged, it would take a minute. You'd go into shock from blood loss; if your lung was shot or stabbed, it would fill with blood, and you couldn't breathe. But even if your brain gets absolutely no oxygen, it still takes at least 15 seconds to lose consciousness."

"So why did I wake up right away?"

"Have you ever seen someone die? In real life?"

He's resetting the PASIV as he talks.

"My grandmother."

"Would I be right to assume that she didn't die of violent trauma?"

"Yeah."

They go under again, reappear in the industrial basement. It's not as if you can go shooting things on the street without disturbing the projections. It's Arthur's dream, and he's set up a simple maze that leaves them in peace for at least ten minutes at a go.

"Like most people in the first world, your experience with shooting people is mostly in movies, or maybe video games," he continues as if they haven’t just dropped into a dream. "Pain is in the mind. So is death. It's in your subconscious, ingrained. If it was possible to cheat it, we'd have found a way by now. Your mind knows you've been fatally injured, so it decides you're dead, and you wake up."

He presses his gun to her temple. She flinches away.

"Remember, no fear. You've felt this before. A few seconds of pain and it's over."

She's sweating and shaking, but she holds her ground. There's a deafening sound, exploding pain, and then she's jerking awake again. She takes a few seconds and consciously relaxes, breathing deeply.

"What if your subconscious doesn't think that you die quickly?"

He doesn't answer until they're back in the same basement garage, fluorescent lights flickering.

"That's why you need to know how to shoot me in the head."

He slips a magazine in his favorite Glock.

"If you can't get close, try to hit me in the chest, but don't do that unless I'm already disabled. If you just need to send me out, try to remove whoever is stopping me from doing it it myself. If you can't get close, don't shoot at me from far away unless there's no other option. But if you're right there and I can't move my hands, you might need to do it for me."

Arthur racks the slide and hands her the gun.

"You can use any handgun for this, no matter the power. Now, since you have my cooperation, the easiest way is to put the gun in my mouth. The place you need to hit for the fastest death is the base of the brain, where the autonomic nervous system is controlled."

She takes a deep breath.

"If you shoot the upper part of the head, brain function could go on longer. Honestly, that doesn't actually make a difference to my subconscious, but it would be true in the real world. Put the barrel of the gun in my mouth and aim dead center, angled up. Make sure to hold steady, or the bullet might go out the side, which wouldn't be very effective. Remember, relaxed but firm. Absorb the recoil with your back."

She raises the gun carefully, finger not on the trigger. He opens his mouth and she slides it inside. She holds it like she would on the firing range, arms straight ahead. With the difference in their heights, it's easy to angle it upward. Arthur locks eyes with her, and it's frightening and strangely erotic, the gun in his mouth and his eyes meeting hers, face completely calm. He trusts her to do this. She takes a deep breath, nods at him, and pulls the trigger.

It takes a moment for his body to fall. He crumples to his side, face undamaged but she can see the back of his skull blown out, blood pooling on the floor and staining his white collar, bits of him scattered across the garage behind him. She hears the gun hit the concrete floor, and then she's falling, then laying on the floor of their workspace, Arthur kneeling next to her. She rolls on her side and vomits on his shoes.

"I never want to do that again," Ariadne says, wiping her mouth with the washcloth Arthur seems to have conjured magically.

"I won't ask you to."

\---

The next day, Arthur tells her firmly that she still needs more practice dying.

"You're still going to flinch when it comes down to a real situation. You can't. You have to make yourself believe that it will hurt more to be injured then to die. I'm going to shoot you from 30 feet with a .22. That might or might not not be deadly outside, but it will kill you here."

When she wakes up, she realizes she's getting used to it. She still jolts awake, but the fear is no longer completely paralyzing. It's almost exhilarating, waking with a racing pulse and an incredible jolt of adrenaline.

The next test is to shoot while she's receiving fire. Arthur hands her an M-16 and says not to worry too much about her aim. It will come. The important thing is to keep firing on the enemy. They're far enough away from each other that she doesn't have to see the gruesome results of her shots. She jolts awake as soon as she's hit, and reaches immediately to tip Arthur's chair. She can't believe how calm he always is. He does take a moment to collect himself, but the signs are subtle.

"You actually hit me in the arm once. Good work."

He shoots her in the back of the head; from 50 feet away with a spray of bullets from a Browning automatic; point blank with the muzzle of the SCAR against her chest. She always wakes with skin flushed and breathing hard. Arthur is always there, with steady hands and a small smile on his face. He never misses.

Finally, he says, "you should still know how to kill yourself."

She’s still not sure if she can pull the trigger with the gun in her own mouth.

"Here, I'll help you first so that you know what it's like."

He lifts a revolver to her face and she parts her lips. She trusts him with everything she's got, and the thought of the gun going off inside her has her whole body shaking. She wants to know she can take this. She remembers Arthur's lips around the gun, how it was hard and black and cold and deadly. Black like his hair, hard like the set of his shoulders, cold like his eyes when he's at work, deadly like his hands. When the muzzle touches her lips, she reaches her tongue out to taste it. She licks along the bottom of the barrel, tasting sulfur and smoke. She keeps her eyes on him, like he did with her. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and he slides the barrel into her mouth. The sight is sharp, tearing at her lips, but she wraps them around the gun like a lover. He pulls the trigger.

\---

That night, Ariadne can't sleep. She's thinking of the sound of gunshots, the feel of the barrel against her temple, what it felt like between her lips. What it would taste like. She's thinking of all these things that don't disturb her as much as they did before, and how that fact disturbs her almost more than anything else. She's thinking of the ugly carnage of brains and bone fragments, of the kind of injuries they might be escaping from with the killing, of lungs filling with blood and guts spilling on the floor. She's almost sick again. But she's also remembering what Arthur told her, what she forgot in her horror. If he needs her to end it, and she can't... how long could she stand to watch him, captured by some savvy mark, life draining out slowly onto the floor? He won't ask her to do it again. He's willing to accept if she can't kill when her victim is staring her in the face. After all, she’s just a grad student. Teach her to handle a sub-machine gun and she’s just a little architecture student with a gun. Is that who she wants to be?

\---

The next day, she asks to try killing him again.

The basement garage is the same, bright patches of light with darkness around the edges. There are puddles of water on the floor, and somewhere she can hear dripping. He tells her to use his Glock again, his favorite and most comfortable handgun. She thinks for a moment and conjures it into her hand. Like before, he opens his mouth, and he’s hard and deadly and vulnerable. This time, when she presses it between his lips, he slides his mouth down, eyes dark and hooded. He’s challenging her, fellating the gun like it's the cock she doesn't have.

The sound is still deafening, even after all the times she's heard it. This time, her mind can slide over the disgusting aftermath. He's gone, dead, waking in the hotel room where they're working, not here with his head half blown off. She knows a little of what he felt, and it's partly horrible and partly glorious. She knows it when she tastes the gun wet with saliva and blood. She pulls the trigger again.

They return immediately to the dream.

"Here's one gun I'm not going to teach you to use," says Arthur, handing her the biggest handgun she's ever seen. She can barely fit her hand around the grip, and she doesn't think she could hold it up long enough to aim. She hands it back.

"Desert Eagle. The most powerful semi-automatic handgun ever made. This one is .50 caliber. It's kind of ridiculous, really. But it can rip a hole right through you."

Arthur's getting closer as he talks, until he's pressed up against her, whispering in her ear. He holsters the gun at his hip and starts pulling up her skirt. He pushes her onto the hood of the only car in the deserted garage, which they've been using as cover for shooting practice. Her heart is pounding. She hikes the skirt up above her hips and sits, and Arthur yanks her panties to her knees. Then he's unceremoniously pushing fingers inside her and she realizes she's dripping wet when they slide in easily. The barrel of the Desert Eagle doesn't go so smoothly. It's cold and thick and full of sharp edges, and she moans at the burn and bite as he pushes it relentlessly into her. He swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing her hard as he thrusts the gun in and out. It's tearing at her, pain sparking into her belly, echoed by a throb of arousal that feels like it's crawling its way up her spine. They meet and blend, and she's not sure which is which any more. She can barely hear anything over the pounding of her heart. Arthur's lips are as soft as the gun is hard and she almost screams into them as she feels his hand tensing on her thigh and she knows he's about to pull the trigger.

She awakes panting and trembling, more turned on then she's ever been in her life. Arthur's on her in an instant, and she wriggles out of her jeans as he buries his fingers where his gun was, rubbing his thumb against her clit, and she's coming and coming and coming, crying out wordlessly but in her mind it's his name and his eyes and his secret smile and his Glock.


End file.
